


His Voice Was Music, Was Storms, Was Death

by draconid



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5359538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draconid/pseuds/draconid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The first time they met, his voice was like music.</em>
</p><p>Seven drabbles about Sans's voice and the times he meets Frisk/Chara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Voice Was Music, Was Storms, Was Death

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this started off as a mostly-fluff fic about the different tones San's voice would take but quickly just became angst. I'm not sorry.

The first time they met, his voice was like music. It was low, clear, almost threatening in the way it was laid bare in the silence of snowfall; but the fear they felt was as short lived as they were, for it didn't take long for the bass of the sound to wash over them. The vibration of his words and of his jests left them feeling bathed in a warmth that could melt the snow right off of their shoulders. They let his voice conduct them in a symphony of mirth, and it filled them with determination.

-x-

The second time they met, his voice was like gravel. It was hesitant and rough and their name dropped from his mouth like a boulder into a pond, his erratic breath like the waves left in its wake. When they smiled up at him, their heart still beating and their lungs still breathing, his voice hit them with the force of an avalanche. It was a torrent of relief, a smothering weight that they could feel press heavy on their Soul. He croaked his thanks to whatever force was listening, and all was well.

-x-

The fourth time they met, his voice was like an earthquake. It rattled in his bones, the clacking of vertebrae and phalanx reminding them of emergency sirens that would warn of an oncoming disaster. There was some kind of anger there, too, hidden in low tones and shaking bones and the grin he never put to pasture, but it was soon forgotten in the aftershock that was his tremulous laughter. It came and came and came until he had none of it left inside of him, and finally the air hung still between them once more.

-x-

The eighth time they met, his voice was like an ocean. It was just as deep and just as mysterious, as if something was lurking in every sound he made. He hid his secrets in a place far inside of him where no one could reach, but the weight of them pressed at every syllable he uttered. The tension held in his words was audible, palpable, but it was what held his voice steady. They both knew that someday the pressure would be too much and his voice would crack under it, but that day was not then, and so they kept on pretending.

-x-

The sixteenth time they met, his voice was like a storm. It started as a rumble – a thunderous promise of trouble to come. They refused to let his words shake them, though, and held fast and determined. While his voice was a maelstrom, they were as impassive as a cliff, and he did not have the strength in him to erode them. His fury and his sorrow crashed over them again and again – they found it somewhere inside of them to wonder how it hadn't displaced the dust that clung to their form – but the promised bite of lightening never came. He never had been good at keeping promises, they thought, and continued onward.

-x-

The thirty-second time they met, his voice was like a candle. It was strong at first, his own words lighting a fire inside of him that he held in his eye sockets, but his fire changed nothing. He was still fated to drown in a sea of dust. They could hear the smoke that slowly began to seep into his words, the heat inside of him shifting from something that kept him moving perpetually forward into something that barely held his creaking bones together. He said nothing at the end, and they cut him down with ease.

-x-

The sixty-fourth time they met, his voice was like death. It sat like a vow on their shoulders, something heavy they could never shake off. There was no emotion to it, no anger or sorrow, but it chased doggedly at their heels and stood waiting around every corner. It was cold, his voice, a thing of resignation and fatigue. Death does its job not with pride and not with passion, but with a finality that held true in every word he spoke. His voice was an agent of their sins, and it weighed on them in perpetuity.


End file.
